Beyond a joke

For more than 30 years, the Official Monster Raving Loony Party were the self-appointed pranksters of the political fringe. But now, with the death of their long-time leader, Lord Sutch, the party's japes are no longer a laughing matter. And, as the party looks to the new century, there's even a bit of casual racism thrown in, too.

ATuesday evening in October. The leadership of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party is on its way to Eton College. The mood in the car is pensive. Nobody says anything. Tonight, Alan Howling Laud Hope - Screaming Lord Sutch's old friend and successor - will address the Shelley Society, Eton's answer to the Oxford Union. He hopes to get his picture taken with Prince William.

These are important times for Alan, a chance to prove to the outside world that the Loonies can survive the death of their founder and figurehead. When Screaming Lord Sutch committed suicide in June last year, many of the tributes and the obituaries presumed that his party was gone, too. But the Loonies are determined to survive, with Alan as their new leader. Sutch had his trademark leopard-skin coat. Alan has an elaborate all-white three-piece suit, with a big gold chain, some vast rosettes and an enormous prairie hat. He looks like Boss Hog from the TV show The Dukes Of Hazzard.

Alan has brought along two fellow Loonies to Eton. There's Peter Stockton - his softly-spoken electoral agent and "Minister for Rock and Roll", and Barry Timmins, the "Monster Raving Loony Backbench Snorer". I am undercover, posing as the Loony's chauffeur, which is essentially true, for I am driving them there. They give me a loony chauffeur top-hat. I put it on. I don't consider myself that much of a loony. How will I cope in the event of hijinks?

We pull up outside the college library and are soon greeted by two or three Eton boys, the organisers of tonight's lecture. "Hello!" they grin.

"Good evening," says Peter Stockton, looking at his watch. "We're exactly on time, but you're actually a few minutes late."

The boys continue grinning, in expectation of the punchline. But there isn't one. I suddenly feel a weight of responsibility on my shoulders. Not only do I need to maintain my chauffeur cover-story, but I also feel the urge to compensate for the Loonies' palpable absence of lunacy.

"'Ello," I say, in a slightly silly voice. "I'm the chauffeur." An awkward silence. We glance at our feet. There is a little time to kill before the lecture begins, so we head for a bite to eat.

"What is the Loony view on Europe?" the Eton boys ask Alan, in the way that a straight-man feeds a joke to his comedy partner.

"You'll hear my views later," he replies. "But if you don't mind, I don't want to talk them all out now."

"Okay," say the boys.

"History is going to be made tonight!" announces Barry, suddenly. "History, mate!"

It is 8pm, and the Shelley Society is full. Previous guest speakers, such as the Hunt Saboteurs and Tariq Ali, spoke to an audience of around 60. But tonight is a sell-out, the Society's biggest audience ever. There are 200 boys inside and 100 have been turned away at the door. I assume the Eton boys invited the Loonies to speak for much the same reasons that Kermit the Frog was once booked to address the Oxford Union. High jinks are patently envisaged. We walk through the old oak doors of the library and into the venerable wood-panelled interior of the debating hall. The Eton boys, dressed in white bow ties and tails, rise to their feet as one and applaud us thunderously. Alan looks bowled over. It is a spectacular greeting. The scene is an ageless one. We could be looking at a costume drama - gracious children of the ruling class respectfully greeting one into their ranks.

Barry, Peter and I take our seats at the front. We glance around for Prince William. We cannot spot him, but, then again, almost every boy in the room looks a little like Prince William. The average age is about 15. Peter is dressed in rock-'n'-roll black leather, with a fur-lined top hat and a lapel covered in guitar- shaped badges. Barry is in leopard-skin.

Alan climbs on to the platform and he hushes the boys with his hands. The applause finally subsides. Alan coughs. "Let me tell you how it all began," he says."I don't know if any of you ever saw Screaming Lord Sutch play live on stage? Any of you ever been to any of Sutchy's gigs?"

All 200 boys shake their heads.

"You're probably all too young," says Alan. "But he was one of the best rock and rollers of all time. Everyone copied him. He didn't follow anyone. They were queuing up to work with him. Jeff Beck, everyone. I first met Sutchy back in 57. We were introduced to each other by Bob Potter. Do any of you watch the World Darts on TV?" The Eton boys shake their heads. They look bewildered.

"Well," says Alan, "Bob now owns the place where the World Darts contest is held. He's done all right for himself. Made a bob or two. Anyway . . ." For the next half-hour, Alan tells of how he and Screaming Lord Sutch came to form the Official Monster Raving Loony Party.

"We first stood in Stratford-upon-Avon," he says, "under the banner of the Teenage Party. The seat became free when Lord Profumo - anyone remember him? - had to resign because he . . . well . . . slept with a prostitute. Sutchy always said that prostitution got him into politics. Any of you related to Lord Profumo? Ha ha!"

I notice one or two of the masters blushing a little and glancing at the floor. What Alan doesn't realise, and we only learn later, is that John Profumo's grandson is actually sitting in the audience.

"We were campaigning for the abolition of the 11-plus," continues Alan, "votes for 18s, all-day pub opening, and the implementation of commercial radio. The BBC had a stranglehold on the radio waves, see, and they didn't play rock and roll. This was back in 1964. Imagine that. A politician at the time - it might have been Alec Douglas-Home - said that our policies were just the rantings of raving loonies."

Alan scans the room. "As the years went by, commercial radio, votes for 18s, they all came into being. If those were raving- loony policies, we thought, let's become the Raving Loony Party. We added the word Monster because we genuinely thought we were going to be monster. Huge. If the people who didn't vote for anyone voted for us, we'd win! That's what we thought."

"ALL RIGHT!" yells Barry from the seat next to mine. He is a little worse for wear from his day in the pub. "TELL IT AS IT IS!"

There are coughs of surprise from the audience. By now, the Eton boys seem to have succumbed to the idea that they aren't in for an evening of lunacy. But Alan's story is unexpectedly fascinating, and he has our attention. "Take those butter mountains," he says. "What were they doing there? It seemed such a waste. So we said, 'Lets turn them into butter ski-slopes.'"

The children laugh and clap."And those beef mountains," says Alan. "We said, 'Let's transport them down to the Sandwich Islands and then we can all have beef sandwiches!'"

The Eton boys cheer. Alan quietens them.

"You know what?" he says. "The Government got scared. They started handing back the butter and the milk and the cheese. They got the Sally Army to give them to the pensioners. Just because we made fun of it. See? Just because we highlighted it."

There is a silence. Alan continues.

"Fifteen years ago we said, 'Let's have passports for pets. Dogs and cats. Don't put them in quarantine. Give them passports'. They laughed at us. Not that crazy, really."

Then it is time for the question-and- answer session. Those boys who had hoped for something more comedic from the evening take the opportunity to ask questions that might elicit a humorous response.

"Do you think people with beards should be allowed to stand for government?" asks a boy from the back. There is some laughter. Alan looks baffled.

"Why shouldn't they?" he replies. "What's the problem with people with beards? I don't understand. Any other questions? Young boy, third row."

"Is your white suit a homage to Martin Bell?"

"I don't know who Martin Bell is," says Alan. "I'll tell you why I wear this white suit. I wear it as a tribute to Winston Churchill. He's my hero. That's who I copy. He is the only man in my lifetime who died to save us all. That's a fact."

"Good point!" yells Barry.

"Next question?" says Alan.

"What would you do if you became headmaster of this school?"

"Well," says Alan, "when I was at school, I got the cane, and I got the ruler. Let me tell you. It didn't do me any harm. What would I do if I was headmaster? I'd do it properly. Next question?"

"Can I ask the man at the front . . ." the questioner points at Barry, ". . . why he's a member of the Party?"

Barry blushes. "Well," he says, rising to his feet. "Alan helps you. See? He helps you rather than doesn't care about you. Could you have a pint with Tony Blair? No!"

Barry sits down. From his chair he hollers, "We've been misled! We've been misled!"

"Any more questions?" asks Alan.

"I hear you're standing against Michael Portillo in the forthcoming Kensington and Chelsea by-election," says a boy. "What are your policies for London?"

"We're going to clean up the River Thames," says Alan. "Fill it with alligators. You may laugh, but when you see alligator swamps on nature programmes, aren't they clean? So we'll fill the Thames with alligators, and get rid of them when there's no more pollution. Whether it works or not, it'll certainly make the Boat Race more interesting!" There is a huge laugh and thunderous applause. And the debate is wrapped up.

We leave for the journey back to London. Outside the debating hall, however, Alan is surrounded by Eton boys clutching autograph books. Richard Pratt, the social science master, stands to one side, watching this strange event unfold.

"We never get this," he says. "This is even more adulation than Stephen Fry got. And Richard E Grant."

Alan, encircled by a sea of boys in white bow ties and tails, beams. "Excuse me," says one child, making his way through the crowd. "I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated your kind words about my great, great grandfather, Winston Churchill."

Alan appears startled.

"Bloody hell," he exclaims. "Thank you."

Peter Stockton, the Minister for Rock And Roll, approaches Richard. "I hear you have a wonderful music room," he says.

"Oh yes," says Richard. "The facilities are quite extraordinary."

"I manage a band," says Peter, producing a business card from his pocket. "They're called The Ravers. Pure rock and roll. How do we go about getting a gig here?"

Richard murmurs something about how Peter should approach the music master. Then he says to the children, "Okay. Enough. This is a library, not a common room. On your way now." The boys dutifully file out.

"Ha ha ha!" says Barry, slapping Richard on the back. "Fooled you! I do it just so people tell me I can't smoke and then I say, 'I'm not smoking! Look!'" Barry points to the unlit cigarette. "Look! I'm not smoking!"

Later on, as I drive the party leadership back on to the M4 towards west London, the mood is reflective. "There's only one word for the Eton kids," says Barry. "Delightful. They're delightful."

"It certainly is a breath of fresh air," says Peter. "Where I come from," says Barry, "the kids just slouch around housing estates telling you to piss off."

"It's another world," I sigh. "Another world."

"It was a brilliant speech," says Barry. "You spoke to the kids in a language they understand. Kids like that."

"When you get a reception like that, how can you fail?" says Alan.

"Apparently, Prince William was in the audience, at the back," says Peter. "At the end he was ushered out of another door."

The car goes quiet. We contemplate the events of the evening. I look in my rear-view mirror and I can see that Alan is smiling softly to himself.

"Don't vote Portillo! He may end up on your pillow! Don't vote Portillo! He may end up on your pillow!"

It is three weeks later, and the streets of Kensington are ringing to the sound of Monster Raving Loony by-electioneering. Alan and Peter are in a yellow mini-van, topped with a megaphone. Tonight, Alan is standing against Michael Portillo. This will be the Loonies' 60th election, and Alan's first since becoming leader. It is an important night. It will be seen as a barometer of the party's standing in the wake of Sutch's death.

We park the car and head off to the Town Hall to collect our passes for the count. Unfortunately, we become lost on the way. We wander the evening streets of Kensington like headless chickens.

"Lost again," sighs Peter, ruefully. "Well, that's Loony for you."

The gates of a big house open as we walk past it, and a middle-aged black man wanders out. Peter asks him for directions.

"Left and left again," he replies.

"Thank you," we say.

"Huh!" tuts Alan."Asking a black the way to the Town Hall!" He mutters to himself in a what's-this-country-coming-to? kind of way.

"Will you stop being racist," says Peter, softly.

At the Town Hall, a young Middle Eastern family are sitting in the reception, their suitcases piled up before them. "I bet I know what's going on here," says Alan, loud enough for them to hear. "Looking for a house. Mmm? Looking for a house on the social?"

Peter shoots Alan a look. I glance over at the family, who have obviously heard what Alan said. They seem uncomfortable and remain quiet - as if afraid that an unpleasant situation may arise if they say anything.

It is a little shocking to see the chief Loony, in full Loony regalia, behaving in a fashion that one might expect from other loony political factions, but not from his. Coming from a political leader - even a Loony leader - this sort of thing is startling.

Some time earlier, Alan had asked me about other stories I'd written, and I mentioned a documentary I made about the Ku-Klux Klan.

"I saw it," he said. "I remember the scene where a bunch of niggers were shouting at some white bloke in a car park."

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"All these niggers were shouting at some bloke," said Alan, merrily. Peter Stockton covertly shot Alan a stern glance. But Alan remained oblivious to the aftermath of his casual and unexpected racism.

'S o what's all this about you and black people?" I ask him now. "It's a joke," he says, immediately. "I'm not racially prejudiced. None of us are. I'm not out to upset anyone. I wouldn't want to run anybody down. We've had some good times together, haven't we?"

"Yes, we have," I say.

"It's just the same as when people make remarks about people who are gay. A joke comes up now and again." Alan pauses, anxiously. "I know that a lot of ethnic people vote for us," he says.

When I first met the Loonies, on the day of the Eton debate, Alan said a strange thing to me. He said, "I hope you're sympathetic to our cause." I furrowed my brow. I didn't think they had a cause. I thought they just dressed up. But I nodded vaguely. I very much doubted, after all, that I would be unsympathetic.

The longer I spend with them, however, the more I understand what Alan stands for. The Loonies portray themselves, essentially, as situationist anarchists. But they are more than that. Their disenfranchisement stems from what they see as the liberal erosion of Olde England. The 1999 Raving Loony newsletter, the Raving Chronicle, has bikini-clad pin-ups, and a parody of a Chinese take-away menu. The restaurant is called the Slitinese, and the joke dishes include "Kow Pu", "Ars Pik", "Ho Mo" and "Yu Kum Steaming-Hot Custard".

"What are your views on Britain entering Europe?" I ask him.

"I'll tell you," he replies. "You'll laugh, but just you wait. Ten or 15 years from now, it'll be government policy. We'll declare Great Britain the off-shore tax haven for all of Europe. We can tell those gnomes of Zurich to sling their fish-hooks. Then Europe will be ruled by London, rather than London ruled by Europe. And we'll have won. See?" Alan grins. "We'll have won!"

Back at the pub that the Loonies have made their base - the Churchill - we hook up with other Loonies for some last-minute electioneering. About half-a-dozen have turned up from across the country to offer their support. "Excuse me!" they yell at passers-by. "Have you voted yet?" "Oh!" replies one. "I thought you were Morris Dancers. I'm glad you're not."

"How come you never see a Jewish Morris dancer?" asks a Loony. "You'd have to be a complete prick to be a Morris Dancer!"

"Where's Screaming Lord Sutch?" asks another passer-by.

"He's dead." replies a Loony.

"Oh." A pause. "Sorry."

"Excuse me, Miss? Have you voted yet?"

The woman walks on in silence.

"I bet no one's gone down on you for months, love!" they shout after her.

Then a conversation ensues about whether Peter Stockton should, actually, refer to himself as the "Minister for Rock and Roll".

"Sutchy told Nick that he was the Minister for Rock and Roll."

"No," corrects Peter. "Nick is the Midlands Minister for Rock and Roll."

This conversation takes place with only a little humour. "Sutchy gave me that title."

The ghost of Screaming Lord Sutch is forever there. When the Loonies sing an impromptu song in a local pub, Alan yells, "Three cheers for Screaming Lord Sutch!" And in the reception of Alan's hotel in Devon (he is a hotelier by trade), there is a bright orange urn that reads, "Ashes of Screaming Lord Sutch". Inside are the contents of an old ashtray that was found in Sutch's home after his death. "He committed suicide on my birthday," says Alan. "Hung himself with a skipping rope. June 16th. Five months ago. I'll never forget that day."

"I had no idea he'd do it," says Barry. "I guess his mother's death affected him in a big way. But we don't want him down as a mummy's boy. He had his high days and his low days like we all do. Hopefully you get through the low days. He was never morose in front of me. He was never down. But deep down where he lives . . . you just don't know what goes on down there." Barry pauses. "Fuck me. It's easy to cancel yourself out. Easy to think you're not worth anything."

"How did you all hear of his death?" I ask.

"The Daily Telegraph phoned me," says Alan. "I said, 'It's a bit late to be phoning Monster Raving Loony headquarters, isn't it?' He said, 'You haven't heard the news.'" Alan pauses. "I knew straight away. I knew it would happen one day. Still, I said, 'You're not really from the Daily Telegraph.' He said, 'Unfortunately, I am . . .'" There is a silence.

"I felt bloody annoyed," says Alan. "If he'd been run over by a bus I'd have shed a tear. But there was so much going on for him. He'd just done that breakfast cereal advert, so he had money coming in."

"I'll tell you," says Peter, "he'd have wanted that Coco Pops money to go to party funds. But we haven't seen a penny of it."

"What sort of man was he?" I ask.

"He didn't drink and he didn't smoke," says Peter. "He never swore. In all the years I knew him he only swore once." Peter pauses, then adds, "But it wasn't in mixed company."

"Where was it?"

"It was at the Winchester by-election. They didn't like the Loonies standing in Winchester. He just got frustrated. He said, 'bloody'." There is a silence.

"But I'm being too open," says Peter.

In the wake of Sutch's death, a leadership contest was fought at Alan's hotel, the Golden Lion, and Alan was elected party leader, along with his cat, Mandu.

A few days after the Eton debate, there was a Monster Raving Loony-related question on the Channel 4 quiz show, Fifteen To One. "Which political party has a cat as its joint leader?"

Now, the party is looking to Alan for direction. Since the earliest days, Alan was always the more sober policy man behind the eccentric figurehead of the Screaming Lord -which is why he's been so keen to promote what he considers the party's genuine contribution to the nation's political landscape. He is also the only Loony candidate to hold political office. He is the current mayor of Ashburton, Devon. "I never wear the white outfit while I'm undertaking my mayoral duties," he says. "When I'm mayor, I'm Clark Kent. When I wear the white suit, I'm Superman." Later that evening, back at the Churchill, some local journalists have assembled to write funny, light-hearted columns about the by-election. Alan reminisces about our time at Eton.

"Weren't those kids great?" says Alan. "Just great."

"You went to Eton?" ask the journalists.

"Alan did a lecture on politics," explains Peter. "And Prince William was there."

"Really?"

"You should have seen the reception Alan got," says Peter. He looks to me for confirmation.

"Biggest turn out they ever had," I nod. "It was euphoric."

"Alan now has very real credibility with the future leaders of Britain," says Peter. "Some serious bridges were built that night."

Closing time comes - and so we head to Holland Park School for the count. "What result will you be happy with tonight?" I ask Alan, on the way out. "Two-fifty," he replies. "That's my benchmark. I put a bet on myself with William Hill, and if I get 250 or more I'll get the £500 deposit back."

"I'd like to see the faces of the Pro-Europe Conservative Party when we beat them," says Alan. "We did once. I wonder how they felt to have been beaten by the Monster Raving Loony Party!"

"Are you excited?" I ask Alan.

"Oh God, yes," he grins, with a boyish enthusiasm. "I'm so excited underneath it all."

Although only six Loonies will be admitted to the count, a group of around 40 merry-makers has somehow formed, all of whom expect Peter to get them in to the election hall, past the heavy police security. Some of the new hangers-on - who are not Loonies and have appeared from nowhere - are drunk and aggressive. They decide that Gavan, Weekend Guardian's photographer, is a "wank-face Tory twat police lackey cunt" for telling them it is rude to smash beer bottles against the wall. Peter has a complex job on his hands. He must somehow separate the genuine Loonies from the drunken thugs, while averting an all-out fight, which is beginning to brew.

"All the Loonies must cross the road," whispers Peter to me, "and then cross back again. Pass it on to the other Loonies."

To make matters worse, he is finding it difficult to control some of his own members. We are yards from the school and Peter, a stickler for decorum and protocol, wants Alan to lead the group through the gates.

"Don't jump the gun, darling . . ." He addresses a Loony woman, the Minister for Pets And Poo-Poo. "You're charging in like a fucking rhinoceros. Alan is the leader. He must go in first."

"Sorry," she says.

"We'll put it down to a lack of experience, darling," snaps Peter through gritted teeth.

Then Alan disappears. He has apparently decided to pop off for a quick sleep in the back of a party member's car. We set about trying to find him, while attempting to distance ourselves from the increasingly angry pub brawlers. In the midst of the mayhem, Peter looks frustrated and upset. I can see how passionately he feels about the party, about observing the proper etiquette. Peter is different from the others. He is upper-middle class, for a start, and has been a successful entrepreneur. He once managed Stringfellows and he co-owned two central London clubs, Lennons and Johnny O'Boogies, with Cynthia Lennon. I wonder how Peter feels about Alan's inopportune racism, which can only be a hindrance to the respectability of the Loonies - something that Peter quite obviously cares deeply about.

"Alan isn't a racist," he says. "Not really. The only thing he eats is curry. And that's Indian food. Maybe he thinks it's funny, this colonial guy in the white suit and a white hat, saying colonial things." Peter pauses. "Don't forget," he says, "we're only the Monster Raving Loony Party. You don't have to be too hard on us. We're not something to be annihilated with AK47s."

Nonetheless, the Loonies, under Alan, are striving for political respectability - Peter himself says they should change their name to the Common Sense Party - and, like all politicians, they should be careful when a Guardian journalist, holding a notepad, is standing next to them writing down everything they say.

Alan reappears, awake and ready for action, and we recruit some nearby policemen to help siphon the real Loonies off from the drunks. And then we enter the school.

Alan shows me a brown envelope in which he's carrying a Monster Raving Loony Million Pound Note. This is Alan's stunt against political sleaze. If Portillo takes the gift, the Loonies will issue a press release saying that he has accepted a £1-million Loony bribe in a brown paper envelope.

We drink coffee, smoke cigarettes. A few journalists approach Alan. "I suppose you'll have got some sympathy votes, what with Sutch dying and all," suggests one.

"Got any jokes?" asks the man from the London Evening Standard.

"Jokes or anecdotes?" asks Alan.

"Anecdotes will do," he says, "as long as they're funny."

Alan begins a story about how he mislaid his deposit on the way to the Town Hall. We are interrupted by a commotion from down the corridor. Michael Portillo has arrived. The camera crews stampede, and Alan is lost in the hubbub, clutching his Monster Raving Loony Million Pound Note.

"Mr Portillo!" he yells. But everyone else is yelling "Mr Portillo", too, and Alan cannot get within a mile of him.

Luckily, however, we have passes for the counting floor, and the other journalists don't. So we follow Portillo inside. Alan nervously approaches him.

"Mr Portillo?" he says, his hand shaking a little.

"Hello," says Michael Portillo, extending his own hand.

"I have a gift for you," says Alan.

Michael Portillo looks down at the brown envelope. He twigs. "Not tonight thank you," he says. He turns his back.

"Hah!" says Alan to whoever will listen. "Michael Portillo has refused a £1 million note!" But the joke isn't quite as good now.

Three hours later, the results. It is now the early hours of the morning. There are 18 candidates - ranging from Rainbow George's Lovebucket Party to the pro- Cannabis Party. Dressed all in white, with his huge hat, Alan is by far the most distinctive of all the candidates. He stands out - a flash of white among the dark colours.

"Alan Hope, Official Monster Raving Loony Party . . . 20."

Alan punches the air. A small cheer goes up from his supporters, hesitantly, for it is a dreadful result.

"Michael Portillo . . . 11,004."

When all the results have been announced, we realise the sad news that the Loonies have come an appalling 17th out of 18 candidates. Only the Stop Tobacco Companies From Harming Our Children Party fares worse, with 15 votes.

In the long, strange history of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party - 30 years in opposition and 60 constituency elections - this is their worst result ever.

Michael Portillo descends from the stage to be congratulated by his entourage, who are dressed from head to toe in blue. The blueness of Portillo's entourage makes them look like they're in costume, too. He shakes their hands briskly and he gives his wife a peck on the cheek. Then he hurries out of the door to a waiting car and is whisked away.

"Twenty votes," I say.

"Jesus Christ, that's dreadful," agrees Peter.

It is 2.30am. The Loonies are the last to leave, along with a few policemen.

"I'm going to demand a recount!" yells Alan to no one. "Come back everyone!"

"How do you feel?" I ask him.

"Wonderful!" he says.

A few Loonies gather sadly around him in commiseration. We all know how much the party means to him. This is not lunacy for Alan. This is real. He attempts to buoy the Loonies up. "It's a party record," he says. "Our lowest vote ever! Any record is good." The only thing Alan admits being upset about is that he wasn't allowed to make a speech.

"I paid my £500, too, just like Portillo did," he says. "Why was he allowed a speech and not me? I'm considering making a complaint."

"What would you have said?" I ask.

"I would have said, 'Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, and a very special thanks to our spiritual leader, Screaming Lord Sutch.'" Alan raises his eyes skyward. This is the gesture he would have made.

We wander outside into the dark, silent streets of Kensington.

"Twenty votes," I murmur.

"A new Loony record," says Alan. "Lowest ever! Don't worry. We'll turn it to our advantage. Uh. We're still looking for that nil points that are very elusive! We're nearly there, but then 20 silly people voted for us! Uh. This is the Loony Party going back to basics . . . Nil points! Ha ha!"

At that, Alan disappears, smiling, into the land of comedy inspiration